


And Let's As Silence

by aerialbots



Series: the stars downward drifting [1]
Category: Transformers - All Media Types, Transformers: War for Cybertron
Genre: Gen, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Seeker Trines
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-22
Updated: 2015-01-22
Packaged: 2018-03-08 14:20:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,455
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3212330
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aerialbots/pseuds/aerialbots
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>"But monsters are always hungry, darling, and they're only a few steps behind you, finding the flaw, the poor weld, the place where we weren't stitched up quite right."</i> -- Richard Siken, <i>Snow and Dirty Rain.</i></p><p>'<i>Head/heart/lungs</i>', the humans would have called it, if any trine had made it through to the end of the war.</p>
            </blockquote>





	And Let's As Silence

It works like this:

For every action there is an equal and opposite reaction, and even free will has to bow to universal laws. Physics, probability, time, cosmic balance -- whatever you believe in, sooner or later something will eventually catch up to you.

The thing about victory, Silverbolt learns, is that it always comes at a cost, and it's never truly in your hands to choose it.

 

 

Air Raid never had known how to follow orders, but for all his gunpowder temper, Slingshot had always been the one Silverbolt could trust to play interpreter, to bridge the gap between his -- sometimes admittedly extreme -- pragmatism and Air Raid's impulsiveness.

Trines were tricky business, had been so before the idea of civil war had even been conceivable in anyone's processors, allegedly right from the time Primus had spun the first spark to be given wings, then hand-picked two more to give it companions. Trine meant Silverbolt would drag Air Raid to whatever skyless cage had been designated the War Room in their current base, to discuss fighting strategies and argue about tactics until both an agreement and an unholy cycle of the morning had been reached, and that Air Raid would actually put forward legitimate, carefully thought ideas rather than drawl some sarcastic comment about exhaust-kicking and teaching 'Cons the real meaning of jet judo.

It also meant Slingshot would roll his optics and declare them _slagging idiots, think I've nothing better to do that fix you up all fraction_ , but still get the bigger dents and tears in their plating repaired after every battle without them even asking, because medics were scarce, and medics who actually knew how to fix wings without making the ordeal excruciating or supremely uncomfortable or both were even rarer, but one who had been just orns away from finishing his training before the war had broken out had happened to be assigned to their team.

(Most importantly, it meant Slingshot -- after a lot of nagging and stern looks and snappy comments -- had eventually acquiesced and taught them how to repair him, in return.)

Trine meant they fought and hurt and bled, sometimes outside of battle and because of each other, but they did it _together_ , just like they joked and healed and cared, and at the end of the day, everything was _for_  each other, too.

 

 

(' _Head/heart/lungs'_ , the humans would have called it, if any trine had made it through to the end of the war.

As it was, the three of them had no need for it -- spark/processor/wings, Slings-Bolt-Raid, Autobot Command Wing; names were irrelevant when you were joined so closely the dance of survival came instinctively.)

 

 

Since the beginning of the war, one in every three mechs had died -- it stood to reason, then, that eventually death would reach them.

Both Air Raid and Silverbolt would've never believed anyone who said it'd be Slingshot who would die first. Slingshot, on the other hand, had known as much right from the beginning -- slag them all to the Pit, but the Decepticons were good at this war thing, and the easiest way to kill something was to aim for the spark.

He wasn't under any illusions regarding the fact that he'd been the one thing keeping Silverbolt and Air Raid from slowly destroying each other, in the beginning, his presence the pin keeping this particular frag grenade from blowing in everyone's faces, silence after silence and word by biting word until the whole thing detonated without warning. But he also knew he and Silverbolt were both too self-deprecating to exist for long without Air Raid's fierce determination to always aim for the stars, no matter how many losses they faced, and that he and Air Raid would've burned the world for the sake of a single battle without Silverbolt's temperance to control and guide their fire in the right direction.

They'd do just fine without him, he was sure. When it came down to it, they didn't really have an option.

 

 

Both of them knew -- had known -- about Silverbolt’s phobia, that small yet all-encompassing detail of his spark or processors or systems that tugged him downwards and spiralling into terror whenever he went above a certain altitude, but neither had ever mentioned it aloud. They worked around it, deliberately ignored it when they caught him bracing himself before guiding them higher into the sky, never called attention to the way his plating occasionally rattled as he trembled after landing.

After, Air Raid does.

It comes as a shock, at first, feels like a physical blow that would have doubled him over if he hadn't been hunched over his knees already, back at their current headquarters, staring at the berth that was Slingshot's just a few cycles ago, and there's a certain coldness in how casually Air Raid mentions it that makes Silverbolt suddenly, painfully aware that this is not merely grief talking.

 _Aim for the spark_ , had been his last words. It seemed like Air Raid had heeded his advice.

Silverbolt doesn't respond.

If he were to be honest, he blames himself too.

 

 

War isn't for mourning. War is a thief of time, memories, lives, and it's merely a fraction or two before they're deployed again, limping around the ghost of Slingshot's place in their wing. They're assigned a string of painfully forgettable temporary teammates, at least until someone suitable is found to complete their trine once more, and the idea is so viscerally, astonishingly _insulting_  Silverbolt's left nearly shaking with the effort to contain his sudden violence, Air Raid seething and, for once in the history of their acquaintance, legitimately speechless as the offending Autobot officer takes his leave.

Silverbolt's hand closes around Air Raid's arm like a vice as soon as his ~~trin-~~  wingmate makes to follow, absolute rage lighting his field like the Fire Pits during an acid storm, and the resulting blow to his front sends Silverbolt crashing into a table, vocaliser crackling and his entire frame spasming as pain explodes up his wings, his vision an endless stream of warnings and damage alerts.

Air Raid's fists clench. Silverbolt's hand closes on the edge of the table so hard he leaves dents as he stands up. He does not return the blow.

The door doesn't slam, but it certainly feels like it ought to.

 

 

Slingshot was wrong about a great many things, including -- but not limited to -- the age of Galena Prime at the time of her death (no one knew for sure but it was _definitely_  not two hundred and twenty two eras, down to the cycle), the virtues of Nebulon rock operas (the fact that they existed to begin with, some had been known to affirm, was one more reason Primus could not possibly be real, and if he were, he couldn't love his people as much as he allegedly did -- no loving creator would've imposed _that_  upon their creations), and the theoretical ending of the _Lifestream_ series, had the war not gotten in the way of the resolution to the 87th season's five-part cliffhanger (or so Air Raid had said at one point; when asked rather pointedly about his opinion, Silverbolt had been quite thankful not to have one, having preferred enforcer procedurals by far). He was not wrong about his trinemates' capacity for survival.

 

 

Their assigned quarters still feel too quiet, the ghost of Slingshot's absence and the angry, wounded silence standing like a wall between him and Air Raid, taking over all the space, invisible and smothering. Silverbolt doesn't turn around at the sound of the door sliding open, doesn't expect the fight to continue when Air Raid enters -- his teammate is aggressive but not _violent_ , not just for the sake of causing harm-- but he doesn't expect the hand that falls on his wing, either, faintly painful even though the pressure is so gentle as to be almost non-existent. He doesn't flinch, and Air Raid doesn't speak, and neither of them says a word out loud or by comms, even if their fields are silently crying out electromagnetic anguish, teeming with guilt and sparkbreak and longing that have no place in a war.

His plating hurts as Air Raid pops out the dents from the table, straightens bent lines, welds a few minor tears that would've healed on their own by next fraction if it weren't for rationing, and Silverbolt hisses silently despite himself a couple of times, but Air Raid's hands are steady on his wings, as methodic and thorough as Slingshot instructed them, and Silverbolt feels himself relaxing, quietly and by degrees, almost unwittingly.

They're not alright, not by far, but for the first time in fractions, Silverbolt dares to believe they might be, eventually.


End file.
